Comfort
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Dick gets injured whilst out on patrol. Bruce typically attempts to pawn the boy off to Alfred whilst he goes to work. Alfred has other ideas, forcing his employer into spending a single day in Dick's company while he is unwell. Father-Son bonding aplenty
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Not typically a fan of 'fluff' style stories, but will make somewhat of an exception with the content of this particular offering. Of course, staying true to the idea that Bruce is always working a case whether he wants to or not, there is a plot beneath the father-son bonding moments. **

**The first two chapters of this story are complete and edited. The third chapter is 75% complete as of this statement's writing (22/12/11) and will undoubtedly be finalized and published before Christmas Eve given the extent at which I write. The final chapter - as usual I follow a four-part story structure to avoid stringy plotting and lack of action - will be completed and distributed before New Year's Eve. The reason I have told you this is in order to force myself to meet the deadline. Please read and review. **

**With it being Christmas and the season of goodwill, I would prefer plenty of reviews to cheer me up through the holiday season. **

**Comfort**

This fight is an uneven contest. Felling seven of our opponents inside of four minutes makes this a clear fact. As I disable yet another assailant with a crushing uppercut, I find myself questioning the credibility of this operation. These men are supposed to be trained; they are not. The transportation of these firearms is supposed to be slick; it is plagued with fundamental errors in handling, shipping and distribution. Either the individuals behind this illegal trade are amateurs or novices in this particular field or there is something more intelligent behind it. My instincts direct me to the latter possibility, but all intelligence suggests the former. It is a difficult situation to diagnose with any certainty. During this brief analysis, I have incapacitated another four men with relative ease. My partner is doing the same.

As we begin to draw these proceedings to a close, I am aware that something is wrong with the boy. His movement is sluggish and somewhat laboured. Despite these handicaps, he is still putting his share of degenerates down with little resistance. Eventually, the numbers are overcome and we stand as the victors. For the third time this night, we have instigated a brawl and come away on top. Our mission to close down the arms trade in Gotham is gliding along at a decent pace. I have no doubt we will see significant results and a substantial drop in illegal trading and gun crime on the city streets. We just have to be patient. At present, we need the GCPD to attend to these lowly thugs. I ask the boy to radio it in while I tie up the unconscious crowd at our feet.

As he speaks, I make a note of observing how he speaks and moves. Looking at him again, I earmark all the classic signs of fatigue and physical trauma. His knees are weak and his posture is slumped, his voice is strained and he appears disorientated. I am by his side in moments. He confirms that several squad cars are already on route to our location in the Upper-East Side. I tell him it is time to go home. We exit the restaurant.

"How did we make out, Boss?" Robin asks once we are driving back to the cave. Outside rain has started to fall, heavily. The boy has wrapped his cape round his body. I do not know why.

"Three raids, three successful shutdowns; how do you think we made out?"

"We did good, Boss. We really stepped it up a notch."

I am in total agreement with the youth but say nothing to suggest this. My partner looks very much like he wants to sleep. Our nightly operations are becoming far more intense in an increasingly short space of time. I am growing concerned the strain of our workload is too much for a boy of his age to handle. It is not unreasonable to reduce his hours and give him more time to enjoy normal teenage life. I will consider implementing such an action after tonight. There is a prolonged silence in the car. Unusually it is myself who interrupts it.

"How's school, Dick?"

I am aware of the boy's eyes burning a hole in the side of my head; he had not expected such an extreme change of subject. It takes him a while to muster a reply.

"School? You want to know how school is?" He sounds almost bewildered by the question.

"Yes. Do you have something to hide?" I say in such a way as to make it clear to him I am being playful. He instantly relaxes.

"School's great. I'm having a little trouble with my homework assignments in Chemistry and Math, but it's nothing I can't work on." His tone is bright and cheery, as it is usually. I am pleased he is at ease in discussing such matters with me. I have often read in child-rearing literature that some adolescents can be evasive on these sorts of topics or simply uncommunicative in general. The boy is very open with me. I feel very close to him. We have a good relationship.

"Good. How are your injuries? What hurts the most?" I say to switch the focus back to a more critical matter. My partner lets out a deflated sigh. He is loathe to admit weakness, like me. But unlike me, he will not soldier through injury for the sake of his ego.

"I have two cracked ribs, contusions on my abdomen and shoulder, my lip is split, I may have a type 2 concussion and I got a black eye. The black eye hurts the most to be honest though." He smiles at me even though it causes him discomfort. I make a conscious effort to return his smile.

"I'm sure Alfred will be thrilled." I offer to earn a chuckle from the youth.

"Very droll, Bruce, very droll."

Alfred is less than impressed with my partner's numerous new battle scars as it turns out. He scolds me for placing the boy under such duress. Dick finds the whole thing funny. To a certain extent, so do I.

"You will need plenty of bed rest, young man. You will also be requiring at least a week off from school to properly recover. This time I want you to follow my instructions to the letter. Do I make myself clear?" The old man tells the boy in a firm tone of voice. He does not wish a repeat of the Narrows Raid. I am positive he will never be faced with such action again. Both Dick and myself do not want his disappointment to find us; the last time was ferocious to say the least. The boy nods his head.

"No problem, Alfie."

"Good boy. Now I believe it is once again Master Bruce's turn to be patched." Alfred announces, turning to face me as I shed my armour. I shake my head.

"The opposition failed to score any hits tonight, Alfred. I think you will find it is a new record is it not?"

The old man raises an eyebrow exclusively in scepticism. "If such a claim can be substantiated with a physical examination, Sir, then it will indeed be a new personal best. I must warn you now though Master Bruce, my thoroughness is all encompassing."

I raise my arms up to the sky. "Let's go, Alfred; begin the search."

It takes the old man's hawk-like eye less than ten minutes to lay waste to my claim. "One bruised rib, one dislocated shoulder, one bullet graze on the left cheek; we are not doing well, are we Master Bruce?"

"Alfred, you and I both the injuries you have just described are ones sustained _last_ night. They do not count." I counter in a vain attempt to earn my record.

"Yes, Sir, but you have _aggravated_ those injuries through confrontation _tonight_. Therefore, by your own rules, these injuries count as fresh because they are now slightly worse than previously."

"Come on, Alfie. Just give the man a clean sheet!" Dick says stepping into the arena on my behalf. Although I appreciate his support, the old man is in no mood to be pressured.

"You, Master Dick, are in no position to demand such things! I believe your current best score is four minor injuries on a single patrol night. You may talk only when it reaches a number divisible by one!" Alfred responds, feigning anger. It is always better when he joins in the fun rather than taking the higher ground; the boy can have far more fun when we all play along. Dick pouts in an overly dramatic fashion as a reply. The old man cannot help but smile.

Eventually, I concede to my old friend's ruling and finish turning over the car and equipment. It is close to one in the morning when I finally leave the cave for the house. Alfred has retired to bed, but Dick has not. I find him sitting in the lounge, watching television by firelight. I am sure he is up only because the medication the old man prescribed has yet to kick-in. His injuries must be especially painful if that is the case; he is watching the shopping channel after all. Drawing closer I see the boy is wearing his new pyjamas, the ones I bought for him. They are made from red silk and have a dark green trim, like his circus colours. I am glad he appreciates them as I spent an uncharacteristic amount of time selecting the fabric and colour scheme; I enjoy making him smile.

Even shrouded in shadow and barefoot, Dick is aware of my presence. "Are you mad Alfie robbed you of a perfect score?" The boy asks me without turning round.

"One day he will have no choice but to admit defeat." I answer dressing into the light of the fire. Dick looks at me and smiles.

"Those are some big words, Boss-man; better make sure you can back them up."

I return his smile as I take a seat beside him on the sofa. We watch some poor girl trying to flog non-stick cookware to the masses for almost twenty minutes without saying another word. The lack of conversation does not feel awkward. Both of us are comfortable now with prolonged silences; we do not always need to fill the quiet anymore. Dick inevitably speaks first.

"I think Alfie's drugs are starting to work their magic; I feel really drowsy now." He turns to look at me as he finishes articulating this thought. "How come he never makes you take stuff for your injuries?"

"I prefer to keep a clear head."

"What if I do too?"

"You know you can't sleep without some type of pain-killer after a night like this."

I hear the boy sigh and let his head drop back against the sofa. He is again finding his limitations irritating. "I could try it. There's no harm in trying right?" He is asking for my permission to not take medication after patrol. I do not feel I should allow him such an option. It could provide a detrimental effect on his recovery. I offer him a nod.

"Yes. Next time, we'll try it." I say leaning over to him and placing an arm round his shoulder, "But for the moment, we'll let the pain-killers do their job." As I reach the end of that sentence, I pull the boy over to me and let his head fall on my shoulder. He does not object to such an intimate gesture. "Are you comfortable?"

"You know, you're kind of embarrassing for a dad. You know I'm nearly fifteen right?"

"I didn't ask that question, did I?"

"I'm comfortable, Bruce, thank you for asking."

I do not need to remind I do these things because I love him. He knows that. And, in spite of his advancing years, I know he still likes these sometimes rare moments between us because he is getting older. We have a good relationship. We watch an aging man attempting to pedal a child-sized bike for almost half-an-hour. When I glance down at him, I find the boy asleep. I am careful in picking him up. Even as he now tips the scales at close to 150lbs, I find him as light as when he was twelve. Perhaps I am getting stronger, perhaps not. I gently place him in his bed.

"How much do I owe you?" Dick manages to mutter to me through a haze of half-consciousness. I pull the covers over him. "This time its free." I watch him smile without opening his eyes, "Suits me. No tips then.". The boy has a wonderful sense of humour and mine is getting better. I then go downstairs, put out the flames in the fireplace and retire to bed myself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: First chapter was brief. Unsure of whether or not I intended to write further on the subject, but decided to continue due to prolonged boredom at work. Bruce and Dick enjoy one another's company whilst he is sick. Read and Review.**

**Comfort 2**

My presence is required in a conference concerning accounting irregularities in some of our clients' books. It is necessary to expunge the company's reputation by cutting the less-honest components away. We must be seen as perfect to properly intimidate our rivals and this conference is an important step to realizing that ambition. I wake up on Thursday morning, intending to go to work at Wayne Enterprises. I shower, shave, dress in one of my more modest business suits and enter the kitchen all before seven A.M. Alfred has already prepared poached eggs on toast and a glass of orange juice. I sit down at the breakfast bar and begin to eat.

"When are you expected at your meeting, Master Bruce?" The old man asks as he cleans the cookware he had been using.

"It is due to commence at nine. Judging from the briefing notes I was given, I would think it should take no longer than two-and-a-half to three hours to resolve. "

"I see. In that case, can we expect you home for lunch?"

"No. Unfortunately, I need to go over a few financial reports with Lucius. He seems to believe the company is haemorrhaging capital without probable cause."

"Ah."

I look up from my breakfast to the old man. He is not usually so intrusive in my affairs. The fact that I regularly brief him on my daily schedule the night before should negate the need for repeated inquiries. And yet he is asking, for him, very searching questions. I am suspicious of his intentions. "Is there something you wish to ask me, Alfred?"

"It is really more of a request, Master Bruce, one you may consider or ignore at your leisure. Will you indulge me?" Alfred responds with a small smile on his face. I gesture with my hand.

"Please go right ahead." I am curious as to what the old man will suggest and why. He clears his throat before beginning.

"As you are aware, Sir, Master Dick is confined to bed…yet again. This is the thirty-seventh time he has been forced to endure a prolonged stay in his room because of injury. This will also be the thirty-seventh time he has had no other company besides myself to entertain himself with. I was hoping you might consider taking a day-off to spend time with the lad. I am certain he would appreciate your involvement." Alfred's reasoning and presentation of his offer is once again flawless. He has obviously thought about this matter a great deal and I am glad of his input. However, I feel such measures unnecessary.

"Alfred, while I appreciate your candour, I must say no to such a prospect. This meeting is far too important for the company's future to jeopardise by indulging a child. Besides which, as Dick reminded me last night, he is almost fifteen and quite self-sufficient. He does not need constant reassurance or my presence to be lifted of any burdens. I am sure that, were you to speak to him about the matter, he would offer the same reply." My retort is of equally sound logic and structure, the perfect foil to his argument. But I already know this is far from over.

"Sir, your child is ill in bed and unhappy about it. He has been in our company for almost three years and still have yet to stay with him once during one of these 'inconvenient days'. Are you positive Mr. Fox cannot hold the fort while you spend time with a young man desperate for companionship?"

"I feel you are pushing this issue rather too far, Alfred. You have requested I change my schedule, I have refused. That should be the end of these proceedings. Do you not agree?"

"So, I should telephone Mr. Fox and explain to him that you cannot make it in today?" The old man is pushing his luck far beyond its breaking point. I offer him a hard stare.

"You will have the car ready for eight-fifteen. We will arrive at Wayne Tower at eight-thirty-five. You will then -"

"No, Sir. You will go to Master Richard's room at nine A.M. You will spend the morning with him. At midday I will bring you both lunch and a report from Mr. Fox on key points from the meeting…"

"ENOUGH!" I shout, slamming a heavy fist on the table. The crockery rattles in place from the force. I am angry. Alfred is unfazed by my attack of emotion. He clears his throat.

"I have already arranged this with Mr. Fox, Master Bruce. In approximately ten seconds, he will phone you and confirm this." The old man's voice is firm and unafraid of my thundering. We regard each other in deathly silence. My cell phone begins to ring. I ignore it and continue glaring at the man who is supposed to be my servant. After a further twenty seconds, I begrudgingly answer the call.

"Bruce Wayne speaking."

"_Hi Bruce, it's Lucius. Listen, Mr. Pennyworth told me about how Dick's all sick in bed. I just wanted to let you know that you wanting to look after your kid is no problem. I got kids myself as you know and I understand wanting to be with them when they're down. So, take as much time as you need. I can keep them dancing here."_

"Lucius, I…"

"_Say no more. Those financial reports aren't top priority and I can get Peterson to email you the meat-and- bones of the issues anyway. Have a good time with your boy!"_

"No, Lucius, listen…"

"_Bruce, I gotta go. I'm in the middle of dropping Robert off at school. I'll call you back later. Bye."_

As I put the phone back in my jacket pocket, I watch the old man crack a triumphant smile in my direction. Alfred has sold me to Lucius as a dedicated family man very, very well. I would applaud his efforts if they were not in total contrast to my wishes. I forgot how clever and cunning the old man can be. He was, after all, a member of Britain's elite Special Air Service Regiment; he is very capable. This time and this time only, I will cow down to his wishes. I manage a sporting smile. "Nine o'clock, Alfred?"

"Nine o'clock, Sir."

I head up to the boy's room close to nine. I have removed my tie and jacket. I find him still asleep as I open the door. I take this opportunity to have a proper look around his room; I don't think I've ever really seen it in the daytime. I imagine his room is that of any typical teenage boy. He has posters of music bands on the walls amongst medals, awards and trophies. His bureau is covered in textbooks and half-finished assignments along with empty drinks bottles and sweet wrappers. His floor, although tidy, has mud, grass and other dirt ground into the carpet fibres. His TV has a mountain of DVD boxes stacked in front of it and many innumerable discs littered on the stand. His nightstand though has only three items on it. One is an antique lamp I gave him from my parents' room on his birthday while the other two are framed photographs. The largest shows him as a young boy of five or six flanked on either side by his parents. The circus is in the background. He came to the house with this photograph; it is his most treasured keepsake besides his circus outfit. The other photograph, smaller than its significant other by almost half, is of him with Alfred and myself on a trip. It was taken only six months earlier, but Dick believes it to be the best picture of us he has seen.

Alfred tells me he considers these two photographs to both be of his family and thinks of them as important as one another. To know that Dick considers Alfred and myself to be as much of his family as his own parents is truly gratifying. I consider the boy to be as much a part of my life as my parents were, as much a part of my family as Alfred is. When I think about Dick in these terms, the old man's argument for spending the day with him holds so much more weight. I have been neglectful of him when he is incapacitated due to injury. Perhaps this day will amend my mistakes somewhat. I draw up to his bedside.

"Dick?"

The boy groans before opening his eyes and regarding me in confusion.

"Bruce? Is it after six already?" He asks, his voice groggy with sleep and powerful medicinal effects. He mistakenly believes my presence means he has slept all day.

"No, Dick. It's only just gone nine in the morning. Sit up."

Dick painstakingly pushes his body to a seated position, resting his back against the headboard. Despite the nature of his injuries, his movement is remarkably fluid. His bruised eye's colour has darkened, but it is a positive sign. His head trauma does not seem worse either as I hand him a new round of pills to swallow.

"Don't you have a really important meeting to go to today?" The boy inquires as he knocks back his medication in one attempt.

"I got Lucius to front the meeting. I thought it would be nice for us to spend the day together." I reply deciding not to mention Alfred's heavy involvement in proceedings. The boy smiles as I offer him a tumbler of water.

"Great, but you heard Alfie; I gotta stay in bed the whole damn week. I don't think it'll be much fun hanging out in this place all day." Dick points out in between sips of water.

"I'm sure we can think of something to do. How about I help you with your homework assignments in Chemistry and Math?" The boy is trying to hide his enthusiasm. He has clearly wanted such an opportunity to happen for some time. He gestures to the bureau.

"Sure thing. Chemistry's in the red folder and Math is in the orange folder. Newest assignments are at the front."

The boy is organised. Alfred will be pleased to learn his advice on colour-coding books has been taken onboard. I bring both folders over to him along with relevant textbooks and writing materials. He shuffles to one side of his double bed as I can sit beside him. Once I am settled, he presents his Chemistry homework first.

"It's all theory-based and really, really heavy. I gotta find out the chemical formula for all the following compounds and organize them into a table."

"Have you considered referencing the Periodic Table?"

"I don't think the table's heard of Magnesium Sulphate or Sodium Chloride. Chemistry sucks."

"You know from experience that is not true. Let's think about the assignment logically."

I possess the equivalent of a master's degree in both Chemistry and Forensic Science. Due to this abundance of knowledge, I find the problems presented elementary to solve. However, I cannot simply give Dick the answers. He will never learn that way. We talk through each compound, sifting through the textbooks to obtain the correct answer. After the first few, the boy is confident enough in the process to finish the assignment without any further assistance. His finished table is of a good standard. He seems very pleased with himself. We graduate to Math.

"I don't get Trigonometry. See here-"

"Dick, it's almost eleven o'clock; are you sure you wouldn't like some breakfast before we carry on?"

"Nah. Alfie's meds make me lose my appetite. I'll eat something at lunch, promise."

"And how's your head doing?"

"It's still a little fuzzy, but I can manage." The boy looks from his folder to me and smiles. "It's sweet that you're concerned about me though. What I really want help with is Trigonometry though. You in?" I smile back.

"Let's get to work."

Dick is far more competent at Trigonometry than he realizes. After a few minor hints to steer him in the right direction, the boy grasps the three formulae required to solve the equations and proceeds to annihilate the assignment in less than twenty-five minutes. His work, particularly his method of working out the problems, is again of a high standard. I am pleased that his academic studies have not suffered under the stress of his other duties. I must also admit to enjoying being with the boy in such relaxed surroundings. It is nice to spend time with him and not concern myself with other burdens.

"Whoa. I did those really fast." Dick remarks once he has placed them to one side for Alfred's approval. The old man will not permit the boy to submit what he deems 'shoddy' work. I nod in agreement.

"That's because you're a good student." He pouts at me.

"Just a good student?"

"Well, I am being awfully kind in saying that."

Dick smacks me on the shoulder and tuts, "You're worse than the teachers!" We both smile at this light-hearted moment. They are unfortunately far and few between in Gotham's current situation, but when they occur they are all the sweeter for it.

As expected, Alfred arrives shortly after twelve o'clock with our lunch and Lucius' notes on the meeting. When he first enters the room, the old man is still in regarding the sight before him. We both watch as the smile of someone viewing something precious and beautiful crosses his lips. He is very pleased with himself. He then returns to a more professional manner in presenting us with home-made lasagne and a root-beer for Dick. As soon as he is relieved of the tray, the old man is upon the boy's homework without another word. We watch him quickly scan the assignments in silence. Every so often, he nods in what can only be approval and, once or twice, even manages a small smile. He is soon finished with both.

"Excellent work, Master Dick. Has Master Bruce's presence been beneficial?"

"The guy kicks ass, Alfie."

"Language, young man. I am glad he has been of some help. You may submit these when you are suitably convalesced. Here are your next rounds of medication." Alfred says handing over a new cluster of colourful tablets. "Try to eat them with…" The old man cannot finish his sentence. The boy immediately swallowed all his pills without a second thought. Alfred clears his throat to compose himself. "Never mind. I will return in one hour. Please have your dishes ready for collection."

"Thanks Alfie."

"Yes, thank you Alfred."

"Sirs." The old man vacates the room soon after his slight bow. Dick grins at me.

"I freaked him out, right?"

"I don't think it was a good idea to just chuck the entire medical cabinet down your throat."

"I didn't." The boy sticks his tongue out before reaching underneath it and producing all the pills he was meant to have just ingested. "Pretty neat trick, huh?" I frown.

"Did I teach you that?"

"Nope, totally self-taught. I used to use it back in the circus when I didn't want to eat something. My parents never found out.

"I trust that you do not use this talent on a daily basis?"

"I do eat my vegetables, Bruce."

"Well, then there's no problem." I return his smile and ruffle his hair, "Eat what you can manage."

I muse through the notes on the meeting during lunch. Lucius has successfully traced all our financing irregularities to their point of origin and taken appropriate steps. The board of regulators brought in to query the aforementioned discrepancies have left satisfied of Lucius' explanations and accompanying evidence. Therefore, Wayne Enterprises' reputation as a fair, honest and trustworthy company is intact. This is gratifying to know; I had been concerned as of late that my father's business had lost its way. With this particular incident closed, I no longer feel my family name is in danger of slander. Even though I have been reading the notes thoroughly, I have still cleared my plate. Glancing across, I see Dick has cleared the majority of his as well. It is a good sign for the boy's recovery.

Alfred's punctuality is faultless. Precisely one hour after giving us lunch, the old man returns to collect our plates. He complements Dick on his appetite, asks if we require anything else and then leaves. His organisation and manner supersede all others; he is the perfect servant. Now with the boy's homework behind us and the whole afternoon ahead, I am unsure of what to do next. Fortunately Dick poses a question that I have an immediate answer to.

"Is there anything you want my help with, Bruce?"

"Yes, our current investigation."

"The, uh, arms trafficking operation, right?"

"Yes. What was your impression of the shipments we intercepted last night?"

"Aside from the fact a lot of those guys hit really freakin' hard?"

His sarcasm has a time and a place; this is not it. My response of a hard stare tells Dick I want a sensible answer, an honest appraisal of our opposition. He shrugs his shoulders before offering the following:

"The shipments were too small. Who wants to buy just two hundred weapon systems and a couple of thousand rounds of ammo? It's not even like the systems were specialized or custom-built; just standard semi-automatic rifles, probably Russian and pretty cheap. If anything I'd say those shipments weren't shipments at all; they were hammy-downs from one gang to another, strictly in-house trading."

"Yes, that was my assessment too. And the men tasked with transporting these firearms were not expecting trouble."

"Yeah. They looked kinda shocked when we turned up. Getting the intelligence on the shipments from Gordon sort of point to the fact these guns aren't top secret. Could this be a set-up? I mean, as in one gang is setting up another for the fall? Did Gordon's sources all come from one side of the fence?"

What the boy is suggesting is that one of Gotham's gangs is deliberately selling guns to another, letting the GCPD know the details of when and where the shipments are being collected and then allowing their rival gang's members to take the blame? The fact that Jim's sources are almost exclusively anonymous tips supports the idea. It is certainly worth checking who the gang members we handed over to the police were working for, with or against and establishing a pattern or trend. I make a strong mental note to examine these leads later; I must remember where I am now.

"I'll look into it later. What would you like to do now?" Dick wrinkles his nose at something in disgust.

"Take a shower. I reek really bad right now."

"Alright. Just be careful of your injury." As soon as I say this, the boy looks at me expectantly and grins somewhat sheepishly.

"Can you carry me to the bathroom? It's kinda far."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather walk there yourself?"

"If you hadn't carried me last night I wouldn't have made it half-way up the stairs. Carry me please?" Dick spreads his arms out in a manner befitting a six-year-old. I cannot help but smile at his lack of self-consciousness; he accepts his current situation without false bravado and is not above asking for help. Humility is one of his many admirable traits. I oblige him. It is awkward manoeuvring his body off the bed without aggravating his injuries, but once I have cleared this obstacle the rest is far more straight-forward.

"Your shoulder okay?" The boy inquires as we cross to his wardrobe to select some post-shower clothes.

"It's fine. What would you like to wear?" I say slightly baffled by the sheer volume of clothing crammed into a considerably large space. Clearly this is where the bulk of Dick's allowance is being spent.

"That and those and that one there." For someone who claims he is becoming too old to be treated like a child, the boy is revelling in his current dominion over my actions. The items he selected by pointing are proving difficult to find. Eventually though, I take them in my hands whilst juggling Dick's weight and head for the bathroom.

"Are you going to assist me in getting dressed or should I yell for Alfie?" The boy asks once I have relieved myself of both him and his clothes at the bathroom door.

"Call us both. Whoever gets here first can get that particular honour." I reply to make Dick laugh. He instantly regrets it.

"Crap that hurts!" The boy yells clutching his ribs. He straightens back up and is still smiling. "Don't make me laugh, Bruce! It hurts to laugh!" I smile and leave him to his own devices.

"How is your day progressing, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks me once I have entered the kitchen.

"It seems pleasant enough."

"And where is the young master?"

"Taking a shower."

"Ah, I see."

There is a brief silence as I observe the old man cooking lobsters for tonight's evening meal. He is very attentive to every aspect of the process, forever monitoring the temperature and colour of the food to ensure continuing perfection. However, I break the silence. "When Dick is ill like this, do you dress him after a shower? Carry him around and such?" Alfred brings the pot back down to a steady simmer before turning his attentions to me.

"I do not dress him from head to toe, but, yes. It is often the case the lad's injuries are limiting enough that he can only just manage to put on his underwear without aid. As for ferrying him around the house, my age and his increasing bodyweight make this an increasingly rare event. When he was younger and I myself more sprightly, I took great pleasure in carrying him with me…as I did when you were his age. Do these things bother you in some way, Sir?"

"I just would not expect him to be so keen for my help with such intimate matters. He is growing closer to the end of his adolescence with every passing month."

"And he should be far more comfortable with my help than yours?" The old man's tone suggests he too considers himself unsuitable for such tasks.

"I am The Batman, Alfred. It is not unreasonable to assume he does not want to seem vulnerable in my presence. And yet, he is not distancing himself from me."

"Because you are not The Batman all the time. Yes, you may always be thinking on certain matters and yes, you devote many of your daylight hours to events that occur only after dark, but you are not always The Batman. You are Bruce Wayne and he, although like The Batman in many ways, possesses one great difference."

"Which is?"

"Bruce Wayne is a father. What child would hide their pain from their father? Master Dick is not afraid of being vulnerable in front of you because you are, for all intents and purposes his father and you love him. The boy understands this. That is why he is not reluctant for your help. And, if I were in his place, I would not hesitate either; you are a wonderful father."

The old man has an aptitude for the English language that outstrips my own several dozen times over. His subtle communications have a profound effect on my self-worth and self-belief that I have not found with anyone else. He makes me believe what he is saying, a useful if not rare talent. Perhaps I am a good parental figure. Alfred certainly thinks so. When the boy calls for assistance, I leave the old man to his cooking.

I find the boy lying on the bathroom floor, his boxers on and his pants past his knees. He has not managed any other clothing yet. When he sees it is me he smiles. "My hero. I was putting on my pants and just fell over. Typical story, probably heard it a million times before of a guy falling foul of his pants' unpredictable mind, right?" I help him to his feet and getting his pants up round his waist. He fastens them without any trouble. He then gestures to his socks. "Alfie usually starts with my socks."

I must admit, dressing the boy seems very strange. Had he been my biological son and had he been with me for his entire life, perhaps this would not feel so odd. As I help him put on his shirt, I feel I am too close to him. Should I be in possession of such anxieties? I cannot give an answer with absolute certainty. Dick buttons and tucks in the shirt himself, but I must again help him with his sweater. I suppose this situation could easily be a daily scenario if Harvey Dent had been more malicious and the boy not so resilient. Dick could be paralysed at this very moment, mentally disabled at this moment, from any dozen causes in his tenure as Robin. I should consider myself fortunate this is not the case. We are soon finished.

"You know you're actually pretty good at this." The boy comments as we leave the bathroom together. He elects to walk this time despite his soreness.

"What?"

"Taking care of me when I'm not feeling so hot."

"I would think I'm nothing but an amateur when compared to Alfred."

"Nah, you do okay." I feel Dick pat me on the back, "Good work, big man."

"Thank you, Dick."

"Yeah, no biggie. So what you wanna do now? There's a couple of hours to kill until dinner." As usual and, it must be said, predictably, my mind has drifted to only one subject.

"Fancy a digital look at our gunrunning friends?" I ask already knowing the boy's answer before he opens his mouth.

"Sounds like a plan, Boss-man; let's get to it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Christmas Eve begins in the evening. This has been published before seven p.m. Greenwich Mean Time so I have kept my promise to deliver this third part before Christmas Eve is upon me. With Comfort 3, the middle portion of this text can be construed as a little dry, but that is the nature of true detective work and investigation. I do not rush endings. They form the most important part of a story. Without a good ending, all that comes before it is rendered immaterial. Although there is a final part of this story to come, this particular ending has caused me a great deal of discomfort. No matter…**

**Comfort 3**

The cave is home to nothing. It holds all manner of machine and trophy, pays homage to the spirit of my crusade and mission, but it is not a home. Even the bats only nest here when no other suitable grounds are available. The cave is and always has been a place of work. Operations and patrols are planned and coordinated in these dark recesses, cases both current and cold are reasoned out within its hollow confines and armaments are collected for battle. The cave is not a place for emotion or sentiment or relaxation.

Or so it was meant to be.

When it was first outfitted for its current use, I never intended to adorn it with mementos from personal triumphs. I told myself it would be wrong to revel in my own achievements. Such egotistical behaviour would diminish my effectiveness, make me relax unjustly. This belief was proven to be mistaken. If anything, the advantage of seeing my achievements reflected in items all around me has improved my efficiency. I feel a sense of obligation and duty to my past glories, a pressure to perform that only drives me further forward when I see these objects.

But it was only with the boy's arrival and subsequent induction into my world that the cave became more. All Dick's basic training occurred in this empty space. From hand-to-hand combat to firearms training to weapon recognition and all the way through to criminology studies, the cave has witnessed every emotion and feeling the boy had to offer. It has suffered his anger and frustration. It has rejoiced in his pleasure and enthusiasm. It has mourned his every failure and basked in his every triumph. And through the boy's training the cave's emptiness has been filled with memories and experiences, emotions and attachments. It has become my sanctuary from the world outside. Yes, the cave is still home to nothing…but only when we are absent.

I carry the boy down the steps leading to the cave. Because of the steep descent, it is necessary to carry him with one arm and to the side of my body. I must be able to see the drop and oncoming steps or risk falling.

"When are you going to put an elevator in here?" Dick inquires once we are nearing the base of the stairs. "I'm just thinking of quick access to the cave. Hey, you know what would be a fun and more time-effective mode of travel to the cave? Fireman's poles! Think about it; how cool would it be to just slide down a pole into the cave?"

"I will consider your proposals." I reply whilst setting him down on the now level ground. The boy's maturity seems to fluctuate from time to time. His childish inclinations may at first appear to be nothing but fantasy. However, it is now increasingly the case these ideas have merit. Poles for access to the cave are not a bad suggestion, nor is the installation of an elevator system for when injuries make traditional access impossible. Regardless of his mood, Dick is smart and very imaginative. I greatly enjoy his company.

"So where do you want to start looking, Boss?" The boy asks once he is seated in my chair. I elect to stand.

"We need to begin by examining all the gang affiliations our arrests last night were associated with." I hear Dick let out a deflated sigh.

"We must've bagged close to thirty goons last night and, I don't know about you, but I wasn't taking down any of their names for later reference. All gangsters look alike to me."

"So what do we do in a situation like this? What is our usual move if we do not have the intelligence?"

Without looking, I know the boy has just rolled his eyes and nodded in understanding. "We get it from somewhere else, like the GCPD booking database." I pat him on the shoulder.

"Start hacking."

Dick is highly adept at computer hacking. He has devoted many hours to developing the range and competence of the skill so that our access to information of any kind is virtually limitless. It is therefore no surprise that he is able to bypass the GCPD firewall and logon features in less than a few minutes. The record is fifty-two seconds and it is mine. He still has much to learn.

"We got our names. Twenty-seven guys were processed last night by GCPD at eleven-forty P.M." The boy informs me as he toggles the screen to display the list in full. There are many names I recognize from past dealings.

"Run a cross-reference with the known-gang affiliate's database. I want numbers for each gang."

"No problemo, big guy." Dick begins to cross-reference the wrong database before realizing his mistake. "Sorry about that. Guess my head is still a little messed-up." I squeeze his shoulder.

"It's fine. Take your time."

With the correct scan running, it only takes the boy five minutes to locate and organize the data. He then presents his findings to me. "We have hits on two gangs. Nineteen of the guys last night are part of the Night Stalkers. The other eight are part of Sam Morris' crew, call themselves the Capos."

I am more than familiar with the Night Stalkers. The gang operates out of the Narrows and has members in every district and neighborhood in Gotham. In many ways, they're the backbone of crime in the city. Whenever the Joker or the Riddler needs henchman or couriers or transportation, they always go to the Night Stalkers. The gang will do any job, no matter how big or messy. By renting their services out to other criminals, they sustain both their revenue streams and notoriety. Their main weaknesses are a lack of hierarchy - there is no leader, only a series of district bosses - and lack of formal training. Their main strengths are recruitment - they pay a decent salary to all their members - and their history; rumour has it the Night Stalkers were the first organised criminal gang in Gotham upon its creation, some two-hundred and fifty years ago. Both Dick and I have had extensive dealings with their fraternity in the past.

I am less familiar with the Capos. Police surveillance has presented the gang as a cheaper version of the Italian Mafia. I am aware their group's organisation is based around the Mafia in terms of hierarchy, structure and business. I am also aware they lack the funding and reputation required to really grab the city's attention. Beyond these very basic facts, I have no further knowledge. Dick and I have never dealt with any of them, as of yet.

"Run a background check on Sam Morris. I think the key to this investigation lies with him."

"Heard the name before, Boss-man?"

"No. That's why I believe determining his motives will shed light on current events."

"Okey-dokey then."

Dick soon produces an arrest record. Interestingly it is of a British origin. Sam Morris' real name is Sam Bancroft, a former financial advisor to corporate businesses based in London. He was arrested for and convicted of major fraud as well as being dismissed of identity theft and illegal trading of stolen goods charges at the same trial. According to his criminal record, he only served five years of a twenty-year prison sentence due to a clerical error. The error resulted in a mistrial and all charges brought against Bancroft were dismissed. Shortly after his release, Bancroft immigrated to the United States. His American arrest records start in Los Angeles and then New York in what can only be described as a dramatic change of circumstance. In Los Angeles he was picked up for soliciting an under-age teenage girl; in New York he was sensationally busted for possession of mass amounts of cocaine with intent to sell by the FBI. His current freedom in the latter case was due to a deal whereby he would give up his suppliers and all his associates in exchange for immunity. He was then placed in the Witness Protection Program only to disappear a few weeks after beginning his new life. It appears the FBI simply assumed his location had been compromised and angry criminals exacted their revenge.

Sam 'Morris' is first mentioned in Gotham back in 2006. He was arrested after serving as part of the Night Stalker gang responsible for the slaying of three GCPD police officers during the riots. Because no evidence could be brought of his direct involvement in the killings, he got a suspended sentence. Could this incident be a motivating factor in trying to bring down the Night Stalker gang? Is this possibly some form of revenge?

"What are you thinking, big guy? I had to hack both the FBI and Interpol to get some of this info; you think we got another criminal mastermind on our hands?"

"It is possible Mr. Morris is attempting to corner the mercenary market by eliminating their biggest competitors."

"But if they've modelled their business plan on the mafia, why would they become hired guns? That's not how the mafia operates."

"They need money first. Once they have enough money, then they can operate how they wish to."

"Why doesn't Morris just do what he used to and defraud guys of their money…or better yet make ties with the REAL mafia and get their funding?"

"The British Government is still trying to extradite him for a re-trial. If he tries to defraud anyone here and they catch wind of it, he will be extradited. As for going to the real mafia for capital, would you trust a man convicted of major fraud with your hard-earned money?"

"So, the guy's basically screwed any which way but this?"

"Precisely."

"Impressive theory, Boss. Any real proof?"

"No. But he IS involved in any possible scenario regardless. The sheer number of Night Stalker gang members arrested last night points to two possibilities; either it was the Night Stalkers making the deal and they needed the security, or it was the Capos selling the guns and they played their rivals into bringing more personnel."

Dick throws his hands up. "I don't like any of this. It doesn't matter about the angle; this will start a gang war regardless. People are going to die. You can see that, right?" He sounds defeated by the rudimentary logic he has applied to this scenario. I squeeze his shoulder.

"It will not come to that."

"Bruce, the Night Stalkers are pissed; they will have revenge. You know how they operate when it's betrayal; they execute on sight."

"Remember what you said? This is strictly in-house trading. The bust is small, regardless of arrests. Night Stalkers have area bosses and a fragile city-wide network. The area boss for the Docks is Michael Mentis and he will want to handle this quietly. No involvement from other bosses will happen at this time. His first instinct is to negotiate with Morris, try to settle grievances without disruption to business. They will call a meeting to discuss the issues. It will happen soon. If we can find out where, we can take both Morris and Mentis out of the picture."

The boy seems to ease slightly. He nods in agreement. "Okay. So, Mentis is going to want to hold the meeting on his own turf in the Docks area. Probably one of their own buildings for added security. It has to be small, tight, and easily defendable from all angles. Think Morris would be stupid enough to agree to such a meeting place?"

"Only if he knew the outcome before stepping foot in the meeting. Possibility of a mole in Mentis' crew?"

Dick shrugs his shoulders. "All of the guys that work for Mentis have been part of the Night Stalkers for years; there's nobody new to suspect."

"Who was working for the Night Stalkers when Morris was running with them who is still part of that gang?" The boy presses a few keys.

"Uh, two guys; Alex Faia and David Colb."

"And who got arrested last night?"

"Faia. Colb wasn't involved."

"It's Faia. Faia is the mole in Mentis' crew. He's Jim's anonymous tipster." Dick glances up at me and frowns.

"Wouldn't it make more sense for Colb to be the mole? I mean, he wasn't there when it all went down." The boy is still young. Often it is the simplest solution that proves correct, but here, the right answer lies based not on probability and circumstance, but intelligence. Dick will learn these things in time.

"Faia looks more credible for being arrested than Colb. Pull up their sheets."

When I contrast their arrest records, I am convinced of Faia as the informant. Colb's arrests are repetitive and consistent. He makes no attempts to change his methods of operation to avoid detection. He has only ever been associated with assault and extortion charges in the past six years. He has never turned witness for the D.A, never betrayed any information whatsoever to the authorities. He is, in short, too stubborn and loyal to execute such a scheme. Faia is his exact opposite. In the last decade, he has engaged in activities as diverse as money-laundering, gun-smuggling, racketeering, extortion, assault and narcotics. He changes tact with every new arrest and each time he turns his hand to something new, the charges against him prove more and more difficult to stick; he has been acquitted at his last four arraignments.

"Let's look in—"

"Ahem. Master Bruce?"

I turn around and find Alfred stood near the stairs. The old man looks less than pleased with me.

"Is it time for dinner already, Alfred?" I ask. Alfred's response to adopt a thin smile and shake his head is not a good sign. When he speaks, I am proven correct.

"No, Sir. Dinner was served more than two hours ago. It is now almost ten o'clock at night."

The old man's displeasure is not directed at our missing a meal, but rather my inability to notice. He would prefer the boy eat, that he be in bed, as he instructed. I find it remarkable Dick and I have spent more than four hours developing this case; normally the boy grows bored with any computer-based work after a few hours, much preferring to work out in the gymnasium or attend to his social life than stare at mug shots. It must be his injuries.

"I thought I told you to ensure he stayed in bed for at least a couple of days to properly convalesce." Alfred's tone is curt and laced with spite. It seems he will not be losing this argument today either. I open my mouth to defend my actions.

"I need a fresh pair of—"

"You could have consulted me, Sir. I am not as decrepit as you appear to believe me to be when it comes to such matters. You needn't have dragged Master Dick into this. I shudder to think what such prolonged focus is doing to his concussion." Interrupting me indicates the old man is not interested in my opinion on the subject. "He also should not be in a seated position for long periods of time either, given the current condition of his ribs." Alfred adds when I opt to say nothing in reply to his interruption. I wait silently to see whether or not the old man wishes to inflict further scorn on my actions. He wants me to say something. I am then struck by something brilliant. I turn to the boy who is watching the two of us from his chair.

"Dick?" The boy knows I want him to speak for me. His reaction of smiling at me and winking is clear he is in my corner. He looks at Alfred.

"I can't just stay in bed, Alfie. I can't lie there in my PJs and pretend like I'm happy. I need to do something. Bruce wanted my help with something, something really important. When I'm sick, you won't let me help you with anything. I can't do any cooking, cleaning, weeding, washing or any of that other stuff. I just have to stay in bed or stay on the couch and watch cartoons or play video games. Alfie, cartoons are fine if you're seven, but I'm nearly fifteen; I hate cartoons. Video games suck. I can do like a million times more things in real life than I can in a video game. Its kinda pointless playing as someone I'm better than."

Dick is not the most eloquent of speakers, but he gets his point across in the clearest possible way. Alfred does not look pleased with his answer.

"I do not tell you to stay in bed and rest because I wish to inconvenience you; I do it because it is what you need in order to recover as swiftly as possible. Your frequent disobedience of simple instructions endangers not only your body but also those trying to help you. You are both quick to label me a 'spoilsport', but I am only acting in your best interests. Please go back to bed, Master Dick." The old man's tone began as hostile and irritated, and then slowly lost its venom as he progressed through his speech. By his final sentence, his voice was calm, but pleading. Alfred may have once been a magnificent actor, but his emotions just now were genuine. I forget sometimes that this old man loves the boy as much as I do. Perhaps I have been slightly abusive of Dick, given his current condition.

"Bruce?" I look from the underlying worry of Alfred's face back to the boy. He has again outstretched his arms. "Can I get a ride?" I pick him up without a second thought. Dick shakes his head at me. "You can beat up dozens of heavily-armed thugs without breaking a sweat, but you can't beat Alfie in a debate?" He asks once he has a secure grip round my neck, "Have you ever won an argument with him?" I offer the boy a small smile.

"I'm Batman, aren't I?" I say glancing at the old man who is also sporting a smile.

"Yes, Sir. I have to admit that the identity is not as ridiculous as I once believed it to be."

"He wasn't crazy about you being Robin either. But you are. I win the important ones…some of the time."

We are now back in the boy's room. I am about to step out in order to give him privacy to change in his pajamas. As my foot crosses the threshold of the doorframe, there is a sharp whistle from behind me.

"Whoa, big guy! Where do you think you're going?" Dick inquires with a smile. He gestures to his sweater. "I just helped you with your homework for four hours; you least you could do to thank me is help me get this thing off." He is about to wave his arm, but soon thinks better of it, instead beckoning me to him with just a finger.

"Raise your arms." I say. The boy is undoubtedly stiff from his prolonged stay in the chair and struggles to lift his arms fully up. He does not give up however, and eventually manages the feat. I proceed to relieve him of his sweater, hanging it back up in his wardrobe.

"If you want to go on patrol, you might as well just go." Dick tells me when I am about to exit the room for the second time. "We got a ton of background work done and I know you need to start investigating stuff. It's really okay if you leave." The boy adds whilst unbuttoning his shirt. He looks directly at me. "I'll be fine without you." I turn my entire body to face him. I gesture at his feet.

"Can you get your shoes off?"

Dick rolls his eyes. "Well, no, but if you call Alfie…"

"Can Alfred put you back in bed or ferry you to the bathroom?"

"Probably not, but…"

"I think I should stay." For some unknown reason, Dick seems to under the misapprehension that he has taken up enough of my time. He is trying to give me enough leeway to leave him here, alone and struggling with the simplest of tasks. It is a position I regret to admit I have left him in many times before. I will not do so this time. The boy looks at me in incredulity.

"But, you'll just be bored like this morning."

"You think I was disinterested this morning?"

"Come on, you're Batman? As if you wouldn't get bored helping me with stuff like homework and carrying me around the house."

"I enjoy spending time with you, no matter what we happen to be doing."

"What about Faia and everything else?"

"They can wait. It is more important for you to be happy at this moment than it is to track down an infamous criminal for a lead." What I have just said sounds unnatural. Indeed it is in my very nature to hunt. But today's events have made it clear that the boy needs me. Staying with him instead of going on patrol may be counter-productive according to logic and reasoning. I would benefit more from finding Faia than helping Dick get dressed. But my conversation with Alfred has helped me realize that such thoughts and analysis are not always those of Bruce Wayne. At present I am not Batman and Dick is not Robin. I am Bruce Wayne and Dick is the closest thing I will ever have to a son. I should bear such facts in mind on the next occasion of the boy sustaining injuries; it may help me make the choice with far less difficulty and coaxing than currently. In the end, I want to stay with him. So I do.

I help the boy get his pajamas on and put him in bed. Alfred appears a short time later with the final round of medication for the day. Dick swallows them and the old man leaves. He informs us should we require anything further, all we have to do is call for him. With Alfred's departure, we are once again alone together. This marks the longest period we have spent continuously in each other's company during our entire relationship. I cannot believe I avoided it for so long.

"You wanna talk about the case some more?" The boy inquires when I have joined him on the bed.

"No. I would like to hear a story." Dick is about to grab his copy of Alice in Wonderland only for me to shake my head at the prospect. I gesture at the boy. He is first puzzled before putting a hand on his chest.

"What, you want me to tell you a story?"

"Yes, about life in the circus."

The boy offers a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm not all that great a storyteller, Bruce."

"I do not mind."

I know the rudiments of Dick's past, the main events so to speak. I know when and where he was born, who his parents were, the countries he travelled around during his time in the circus, but nothing of the finer details. I do not know how he got his first kiss from a girl. I do not know in what manner he experienced his first steps; were they, as I have always envisioned, on a tightrope? How did he feel when he travelled on a boat for the first time? Did he cry during his first performance with his parents? Was he ever scared of going up so high? These are little things; details I have told the boy time and time again are not pertinent to an investigation. He has therefore been trained not to give them much thought. But he will still remember them all because the little details of his life help remind him how he came to be who he is now. Small moments define him in ways the big moments can never accomplish. It is the same with myself.

For the next two hours, the boy fills me in on the special moments in his earlier life. I learn he had his first kiss with a Russian gymnast's daughter in Moscow when he was seven. Her name was Nadia and she had very soft lips. He did not take his first steps on a tightrope but on Smathers Beach in Florida when the circus was touring the United States. Apparently his mom was forever talking about the moment. He first travelled on a boat when going to Europe from America. He thinks he was three or four. He first performed with his parents when he was five and was far too excited by everything around him to be upset. He cannot remember ever being scared of being so high off the ground, regardless of the height.

His way of telling his stories follows no clear pattern. He jumps from age six to twelve, to four and back to six with no real links between them. He tells some stories with spontaneity, others with the kind of practice that comes from repeating them over and over again, but is never left speechless. His vocabulary is as colorful and varied as the stories he is telling. He has led a remarkable life, far removed from my own childhood and any I have ever heard of. It only serves to make me appreciate him even more.

Today has helped strengthen our relationship in a manner I never before considered achievable. The way the boy has opened up to me is almost as remarkable as the way in which I have allowed someone else to dictate how I spend my time. Today was fun. It is a word I seldom use in both conversation and thought, but its inclusion is appropriate here; there is no other word that so accurately describes my enjoyment of the past twenty hours as fun. Even as time forces me to leave his company so he can sleep, I feel closer to him than I ever have before. When I wish him goodnight and close his door, I realize how deeply I cherish his presence. My parents would be proud.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Final part of this story thread. Because I am currently still working on the ending, this is only part one. Part two will be available from tomorrow and will just continue on from where the last paragraph of this ends. I have greatly enjoyed reading your various comments on this story's merits and the portrayal of Bruce and Dick's relationship. I have further plans to write more stories of this particular genre (basically fluff and feelings) sometime in the new year if it is to everyone's mutual liking. Enjoy.**

**Comfort 4**

I have had an idea. It regards not only being able to spend my time in Dick's company, but also closing our current investigation at the same time. It will require some setting-up and alterations to my usual way of operating, but it can be achieved. I will also require the old man to take my side if I am to succeed in this venture. When I enter the kitchen at just after seven in the morning, attired in only my dressing gown, Alfred immediately raises an eyebrow. The old man turns from the counter where he is arranging my breakfast and does something unheard of; he gestures at my dress state with his hand.

"Your status as CEO does not grant you the liberty to attend meetings in your pyjamas, Master Bruce. I would advise you change." It would appear he is full of his usual dry wit this morning.

"I am not going to work today." I announce to him whilst closing the distance between us. Alfred offers me a small smile.

"Are you not, Sir? Whatever could be your reason, I wonder?" He already knows I wish to spend further time with the boy. His every expression and gesture tells me this. The old man is pleased, no doubt, that he has swayed me somewhat in my habits. However, even with such positive sentiments on show, I sense Alfred is still cautious. He knows me too well not to suspect an ulterior motive to even the most innocent of intentions.

"Shall I come straight to the point, Alfred?" The old man's response is to incline his head and fold his arms; he is already fortifying his defences. He replies in a frank tone.

"I would prefer you do, Sir."

"I need Dick's assistance with the investigation."

"We have already discussed this matter, Master Bruce; the young man is to stay in bed for the following two days at minimum. I am on hand to assist you if you so require, but the boy will remain bed-ridden until I deem otherwise."

"I am afraid such measures are not good enough, Alfred." My persistence is not appreciated. The old man offers me a hard stare and unfolds his arms; he is now ready to attack.

"I am the physician in this house, not you. Neither Master Dick's head or his ribs are in any condition for the strenuous work you ask of him." It is increasingly difficult with every passing year to consider Alfred as merely a servant. In many ways, this old man is my surrogate father. He has cared for me and my family before my arrival in ways I cannot imagine. His personal sacrifices, his devotion and his loyalty are all in my service. This man is not and never will be afraid of me as others might. He can talk to me in such a manner of authority because he has earned such a privilege. I also believe that, in spite of my age, Alfred still views me as an orphaned child. I am not a child, however. I am the Master of this house.

"What if it was so that Dick didn't need to leave his bed?" I say to prevent any further escalation. The old man adopts a puzzled expression.

"I am afraid I don't quite follow you, Sir." I smile at him.

"Come, I'll show you."

It is now nine in the morning. I am in the boy's bedroom. Again, I find him asleep. As I open the curtains, everything downstairs is ready. I have obtained Alfred's support, albeit with reluctance, but I have it as needed. Now it is the turn of the boy to endorse my idea, something I think he will welcome enthusiastically. I am about to wake him when I note something odd on the floor. At first glance, it appears to be a sizeable pile of rags; upon closer examination, it is not. These 'rags' are actually the remnants of Dick's silk pyjamas, the ones purchased for his birthday. Fabric scissors are splayed open on his bedside table while his photographs, the ones he treasures above all else, are strewn on the floor below. When I press a hand against the pile and find it unpleasantly moist, I begin to piece events together.

The boy had experienced another 'bad' night, one where his nightmares are far worse than usual. When he is so badly agitated, he sweats profusely and it is often the resulting cold that forces him to consciousness. Normally, he would simply divest himself of such clothing, change the sheets and return to bed. With his current injuries even these simple tasks are made almost impossible. He more than likely panicked in the dark and resorted to drastic measures to free himself. It is likely he called out for help, but, unable to really move from his bed, could not raise me. I am disappointed with myself; how many times has Dick found himself in such a situation, alone and scared? How many times have I ignored him in such a state? I bend down to shake him.

"Dick?"

The boy's eyes open very quickly. He has only been having light sleep it would seem. His green eyes regard me with intense shame. "I'm cold." He says with a sharp intake of breath. My heart sinks.

"Where's your dressing gown?" Dick gestures to the chair nearest the window; the dressing gown is hung on its back. It is less than ten metres away. Less than ten metres...and the boy could not make it. I retrieve it for him without another word.

"I...couldn't get out of bed." He says as I help him sit up. "I was just so uncomfortable and I didn't know what else to do." He adds with some disgust as I guide his arms into the sleeves. He closes and fastens the robe himself without looking at me. "I'm sorry." Even though it is his natural instinct to, Dick will not cry. I am glad; as he is, I could not even hug him were tears to fall. "I know those pyjamas were real expensive." He is still talking. Sometimes talking helps him control whatever pain he is in, mental or physical. It seems to be working; his eyes meet mine again.

"It's fine." I tell him sitting beside him on the bed, "We all have bad moments in our lives. It is fortunate such times often happen in private, when we are alone. However, sometimes they are public displays...like my parents' funeral. Everyone in the whole world saw me cry. My pain was on all the major newspapers, domestic and international. No-one is going to put this on a front page, I promise." I run a hand through his hair briefly. He makes no move against it. When I give him a new round of medication, he swallows them without thought.

"I don't like you seeing me weak." Dick says bitterly, "I feel like such a loser. I can't even get out my own freaking bed without help!" Before I have even articulated a response, I find my hand is on his, squeezing it. The boy looks at my gesture in silence, his anger momentarily forgotten. Then he looks at me.

"Everyone needs help sometimes, Dick."

"You don't. You're like the indestructible man. You could get shot, stabbed, set on fire and have your arm broken; you'd still go to work the next day." The boy's tone has picked up its hostilities. My hand is still on his.

"That only happened once." I say to earn a scowl.

"That's not funny, Bruce." I smile at him.

"It is a little bit." The boy tries to maintain his displeasure, but eventually rolls his eyes and succumbs; he is simply too good-natured. His mouth breaks out into a grin.

"Okay, maybe a tiny, microscopic-sized bit funny."

"And I've always needed people's help in my life. My childhood would have been unbearable without Alfred. My career as Batman would not have become nearly as potent without Jim Gordon. And my private life as Bruce Wayne would not be nearly as pleasant without you around." There is a short silence in which the boy is content to stare into my eyes. I think he is trying to ascertain my sincerity. Then he looks down at our hands again. I use my other hand to tilt his chin back up so his eyes meet mine. "I mean it, Dick. You have helped make me a better person. For that, I can't thank you enough." I take both my hands away. Dick smiles at me.

"You want me to help you with something, don't you? That's why you're buttering me up like this." The boy leans back and folds his arms, a sly look on his face. He knows my actions just now were sincere, but he, like Alfred, knows me very well. He too suspects an ulterior motive for my behaviour. Perhaps I should do something to change their perceptions of me as some sort of scheming fox. Maybe later. I feign shock.

"Now, Dick, why would you ever think me capable of such deceit?"

"Tell me what you want, big guy. Let's hear it." Suddenly, the boy is himself again, recovered from his earlier trauma with startling speed. Dick is remarkable in that way; he never dwells on failures long enough for them to affect him. He wants the next challenge. I give it to him.

"I want you to be my eyes and ears on this operation tonight. Alfred and I have built you a special bed in the cave. It has four or five screens affixed to the front; all of them feeds from the central computer. You can monitor radio transmissions, CCTV footage, hack into databases and view my cowl's visual and auditory information..."

"Without ever having to get my lazy ass out of bed." The boy shakes a finger at me. "Y'know sometimes I actually believe you might be a genius, Boss; this is like every boy's dream."

"Yes, well, don't get used to such luxury. This is solely for tonight's operation. After that, it's back here. Understand?" I offer the boy my hand. He shakes it instantly.

"You got a deal, big man."

Once the boy puts on some underwear, he permits me to pick him up. The first destination is the bathroom, so he can shower. I leave him to his own devices whilst I go and get dressed. Upon my return, I again find him sprawled on the floor in a fashion similar to the previous day. He is wearing his underwear. "I didn't fall down this time. It just feels nice to lie on the floor, takes the pressure off my ribs." Dick explains as I stand him up. "And it's back." I showcase him the clothes I selected from his wardrobe; his eyes widen in shock.

"Have I selected the wrong articles?" I ask already preparing to cast them to one side. When the boy grabs them from my hands, I admit to being surprised.

"These are good." He informs me turning them over in his hands, "I might've actually picked these." Today I am far more proficient in dressing the boy. There are no awkward movements as I put on his socks, hitch up his jeans or assist him with his T-shirt. Helping him is beginning to feel a very natural action, as it should have been all along. I carry him from the bathroom down to the cave. The bed and computer arrangement is exactly as I described to him. In this technological age, such a set-up would be a child's dream, but not Dick. For him, his enjoyment of this equipment comes from knowing he is helping me make the city safer. He does not care particularly for the internet or social-networking sites, although he is very popular with his peers, seeking more conventional activities to amuse himself with; he would rather go ice-skating or to the cinema than play video games.

I only spend five minutes familiarising him with the various controls at his disposal; the boy is more than computer-literate enough to figure out the remaining features on his own. With that settled, I begin to outlay my plans for catching Morris and ending the gang war before it can start...

Sam Morris is your typical sociopath. Narcissistic, shallow and numb to most of the things that make us human, he uses and exploits those around him to achieve his aims. People are expendable to him, no matter their age, gender or disposition. He is nothing new to me. I have encountered and defeated dozens of individuals just like him with very little effort. His type of criminal is easy to pattern, to predict. Regardless of their backgrounds, all sociopaths share similar traits; they also share similar flaws. It will be one of these flaws that proves the man's undoing, as I am about to prove.

Morris is good, but not perfect in his methods thus far. His lack of loyalty to his men has aided me in finding Faia; Dick was able to secure an address in minutes. Interrogating him proved my earlier assumptions correct as well; he is the mole in Mentis' crew. Under the duress of being suspended off the top of Wayne Tower, Faia supplied me with the details of the meet. The amount of pressure I applied means he could only give up the truth, being too much of a coward to dare try and trick me. I make the somewhat cold decision to leave Faia in his apartment and not hand him into GCPD custody. There is a high possibility that Faia will be murdered by the Night Stalkers when they discover not only his status as an informant, but also a double-agent. He would therefore be wise to take himself to the front desk and admit to his involvement in past crimes; a stint in Blackgate is better than death after all.

The boy is fortunate he is able to witness all this first-hand; it offers him a unique insight into the way I operate. Judging by the long spells when Dick is silent, he is impressed by my tactics. When he does speak, it is only to offer more intelligence or warn me of impending danger. In contrast to when he accompanies me on patrol, he is remarkably restrained. This particular arrangement, with myself on the streets and the boy as my support, appears highly effective. Still, I would prefer his physical company. He will be back soon enough.

_"Batman, this is Robin, message over."_

"Send."

_"The building you're going to in The Narrows, Ray's Tavern, is acting as Mentis' temporary headquarters. His name is on the lease as proprietor."_

"Any planning permissions granted for renovations or extensions to the existing structure?"

_"Criminals going through the proper channels, are you kidding me?"_

"Point taken. How large is the building?"

_"From the schematics I pulled, it's just your standard two floor layout. Says here the maximum number of occupants the building can accommodate is two-hundred-and- fifty."_

"As the headquarters, Mentis' position is untouchable from Morris's point of view. With so many men to guard him, the chances of Morris taking him by surprise are highly unlikely."

_"Could be a set-up by Morris. Maybe he wants to plant some explosives to eliminate his competition outright. _

"What are the tavern's composition materials?"

_"It's mainly made out of wood. It's construction dates back to like the seventeenth century."_

"Half-a-pound of C4, placed in the correct position, would be sufficient to kill everyone inside."

_"And smoke inhalation and fire would probably finish off any survivors."_

"I'll run a scan of the tavern using the cowl thermal-imaging software."

_"According to your GPS, you're only a few minutes away now. Be careful, Boss; this is pretty dangerous y'know."_

"I'm sure I'll manage. Batman out."

When I arrive at the location, I am approximately one hour ahead of schedule with regards to the meet. Such timing provides me with more than enough time to scan the entire area for evidence of explosives or explosive compounds. It is important to keep my distance; should Mentis or any of his associates be aware of my involvement, this entire evening will end in bloodshed. To that end, I position myself on the roof of the adjacent building to conduct the scan, shrouded by shadow. My first theory suggests that perhaps Faia, a frequent visitor to this establishment due to his hierarchal status, has planted and primed explosives for Morris so he need not turn up at all. The scan is negative however. It therefore stands to reason that another viable alternative is for Morris to bring the explosives with him and place them himself. With advances in weapons technology and covert usage, it is possible to condense a powerful charge down into a palm-sized block. All that is then needed is either a timer or some kind of receiver to detonate the explosives.

_"How long until they get there?" _The boy asks over the radio link, having decided to dispense with formal voice procedure.

"Fifteen minutes."

_"And how long do you reckon it'll take you to finish this investigation off?"_

"Less than an hour."

_"Really? To end an investigation into two of the most powerful gangs in Gotham and put away one of the world's most wanted men will take you less than an hour?"_

"Yes."

_"I can't wait to see this, Boss. I'm expecting magic."_

I allow myself a small smile. "You will. Just watch the screen."

Exactly seventeen minutes following that transmission, Morris and his associates have arrived. I alert Gordon and his taskforce immediately. I wait five minutes longer before executing my strategy. Entering the building through an upstairs window, I incapacitate the guard who had opened it for a cigarette and proceed down the stairs. The guard upstairs is one of a pair barring entry to the first floor. The other has his back to me when I move in behind him. A basic nerve strike renders him unconscious before I gently lower his body to the ground to avoid noise. The actual meeting is taking place in the next room. Before heading back upstairs, I strip down the weapon systems of both men and toss the ammunition clip out of immediate reach. Once back upstairs, I manoeuvre my position until I am certain to be above their negotiation table.

_"Alfie, what is he doing?" _I hear the boy ask. There is the unmistakable sound of the old man's footsteps and then a pause.

_"I believe he is about to descend from above, Master Dick." _Alfred's voice informs him.

_"But the floor's solid wood; it'll never give under his weight."_

_"Have you been paying attention, young Sir?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Watch carefully."_

Once there is no idle chatter affecting my concentration levels, I detonate the localized explosive I planted on the ground beneath me. The explosive is not powerful enough to cause either fragmentation or a clear hole in the floor; it hardly even produces an audible sound. It is, however, sufficient enough to weaken the floor's structural integrity to such a degree that sudden force would break it. With that in mind, I leap up and then crash down, activating the smoke pellets in my hands as I breach the ground floor ceiling. With the smoke blanketing the room rapidly and confused gunfire trying to cut through it, I initiate my assault.

Their numbers are not important; the smoke and my infra-red vision filter mean even a sizeable group, such as this, is surmountable. I begin by eliminating those individuals who pose a direct threat to my safety. The men still firing wildly are cut down first. One is the victim of a left haymaker, two of them are blinded by my cape before receiving a spinning, inside-out kick and nerve strike respectively. I proceed to dismantle four further people in only four moves, each time going for the knock-out blow rather than anything else. When the smoke begins to dissipate and a steady number are still encroaching on me, I resort to more aggressive tactics.

I throw three batarangs in quick succession. The first goes wide. This is deliberate in order to test their range. The second and third find soft flesh with ease, felling another two without trouble. Before he can elude my attentions, I trap Morris. Five of his men who are too loyal and foolish to leave him to me, attempt to liberate their boss from my grasp. I spare no-one. Without relinquishing my grip on Morris's jacket, I cut down three of them with a series of flowing kicks before striking at the other two with my elbow and head. I know as soon as they fall down, they will try again. The next man to tackle me finds himself with a broken jaw, courtesy of my boot heel. He does not resurface for more. The others suffer comparable injuries: a broken arm, a shattered kneecap, a broken collarbone and dislocated shoulder. I have not delivered such brutal punishment for personal pleasure; it is to properly intimidate Morris. Just from a glance at his fallen associates, he knows I am serious in my intentions.

The smoke has disappeared completely by this point. The only other man to be left standing besides Morris is Mentis. He is pointing a pistol at my forehead. It is a customized side-arm with a red-dot sight and silencer. It has a silver finish.

"I wouldn't." I tell him. Mentis' eyes narrow.

"And why the hell is that, Bat freak?"

"Morris is responsible for what happened at the docks two days earlier."

"No, YOU are responsible. You and that stupid kid you hang around with. You took us down."

"But who set you up?"

"Nobody set us up."

"Have you seen Faia since he posted bail?"

"I don't know who you mean."

"Faia is a mole for The Capos. He set your men up for the fall at the docks."

"Bull."

Mentis is stubborn and single-minded. These are excellent qualities for a gangland boss, but not for intelligent negotiations. I turn to Morris. Taking hold of him with both hands, I proceed to hoist him clean off the floor. The fact Mentis is still yet to take a shot at me means he thinks there is some credibility to my story. Either that or he doesn't like Morris either.

"Tell him what you know or I will take you to hell with me." I proceed to stare Morris out, daring for him to cross me. Morris can see the conviction in my eyes. He knows I won't kill, but Mentis is a different proposition all together. I could die here and now. Mentis has a clear shot; he could splatter my brains if he desired. It doesn't matter. In the end, I will prevail, not because I am faster, stronger or smarter than either of the men I am currently faced with, but because I believe in what I do. I believe that what I do is beyond them. The pursuit of justice is a hard, unforgiving road that often only ends in ruin. But, if you can walk the hardest miles it offers and continue, if you can find the will to push through its darkest recesses and still find light, it grants you power beyond others. The boy showed me that. It has been instrumental in steadying my doubts when I feel the world crushing me. It steadies me now.

"Take me to someplace safe and I'll tell you everything." Morris begins.

"YOU SNAKE!"

My reaction time allows me not only to pull Morris out of the bullet's path, but also knock the gun from Mentis' hand with a smaller, more discreet version of my batarang. Handcuffing Morris, I then disable further violence from his would-be assassin with a single uppercut, lifting him several inches off the floor in the process. Once satisfied Mentis no longer poses a threat, I return my attentions to Morris. "If you attempt to go back on your word, if you try to say you were coerced in court, if you try anything to jeopardise this case, I will find you. And I will make you disappear." I tell him whilst yanking him back to his feet. "Believe me Morris; there exist fates far worse than death. Cross me and you will experience several."

Gordon's arrival on scene is once again fortuitous. I hand over a memory stick containing information and intelligence that implicates Morris in several past cases and exposes his past life as Sam Bancroft in London and New York. Such a wealth of source material is more than enough to secure an indictment at trial, but I feel obligated to confirm both my and the boy's suspicions. A body search of Morris reveals a small quantity of explosive material fixed to an adhesive strip. It seems we were correct in our assumptions. I am satisfied. Once I have answered Jim's preliminary questions concerning Morris and the subsequent raid, handed over the crime scene to forensics and removed any trace of my equipment from the scumbags, I make my way home.

Upon my return to the cave, I find both Dick and Alfred poised to greet me. The boy is stood up beside the bed with the old man's hand on his shoulder. Both of them have incredulous smiles on their faces. I am slightly bemused by their reactions.

"Is everything alright?" I ask scaling the stairs from the vehicle park. Once I reach the top, Dick thumbs behind him to the main computer screen; a playback of my visual and audio feeds is playing.

"It's like watching a video game, Bruce. You took out twenty guys in less than six minutes and your heart-rate didn't even go above 120. It's freaking incredible."

"I, too, must admit some amazement at your latest escapades, Master Bruce. I do not believe I have seen you in action for some time."

Their praise is appreciated, but unnecessary. Such a feat is nothing special or important; it is simply a tool, a means to an end. I do not consider myself superhuman, merely well-trained. I gesture to Dick whilst looking at Alfred.

"How is he progressing?" The old man looks down at the boy, squeezing his shoulder gently.

"Master Dick?"

I watch as Alfred removes his hand. Dick then proceeds to walk the several paces to where I am standing. He smiles at me. I smile back, removing my mask.

"Those must be very strong pain-killers." I say. The boy shrugs.

"It's a neat trick though, right?"

"It is very impressive." I offer before picking him up. "How did you like being in the command chair, so to speak?"

"Honestly? It sucks. I want to be back out there with you."

"You will be, very soon."

"The young man will be ready to go back to school early next week. Ahem, perhaps I should attend to your injuries now, Master Bruce?"

"_After_ I take him up to bed, Alfred."

"Very good, Sir."


End file.
